


kiss the boy

by jeanjosten



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Coming of Age, Drug Abuse, Exes, First Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lacrosse, Loneliness, M/M, Moving Out, Overdosing, Recreational Drug Use, Strangers to Lovers, Summer Love, jeaneil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-10-21 21:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17650088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanjosten/pseuds/jeanjosten
Summary: Eighteen year-old Jean moves in Neil's neighborhood one summery evening of July 2008. Troubled, perturbed, anger-fueled Neil. He doesn't know how to deal with the fact that his next door neighbor is as infuriating as he is charming and, to tell the truth, things are requited. Neil's killing time: getting into fights, eyeing the waiter in the café down the street, playing lacrosse in his backyard, but when his father comes back from one of his business trips, he shuts down again—and then enters Jean.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> @jeanjosten on tumblr  
> [here is the playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1157367950/playlist/6sIVvvghklGyoEykm8lV91?si=jqPX5dm6Tn-PSs7ob-vFXA)

Days like these had a color: pink. They were clear and bright, hot and heavy to the last minute, even as the skies went dark. It was a stupid thing to adore, but Neil adored it anyways; the scent of freedom summer brought with it. It felt like it would never end. And, somehow, it made him feel invincible.

Neil shot another lacrosse ball into the net and sighed. He had been forbidden to apply to the qualifications of his high school lacrosse team by his own father years ago, and now that he was about to start his last year of high school, it meant his last chance to shine before he'd go away and grow up forever. People like him didn't get athlete scholarships; they disappeared into the unknown as quickly as possible, and hoped they would never have to go home ever again. He didn't know what he would do or where he would go. He had thought about it all: the military, his mother's side of the family, maybe even globe-trotting—but nothing fit. Nothing was… quite just right.

He wasn't brilliant, nor was he good at anything, really—but lacrosse had always been his one passion. If he didn't get in this year, it would fade into the darkness forever, and Neil would never dare pick a stick ever again.

"How is it, champion?" someone called from the front-yard.

Neil turned and gave a stupid smile. It was Kevin, the captain of the lacrosse team and, accessorily, his best friend in town. He couldn't say he had too many of them.

Truth is—he was tired. Tired of going to school, tired of having to pretend he cared, of feigning to try. Tired of waking up every morning knowing fully how miserable he would be when he'd get home, and this exhausting routine imposed itself on his shoulders like an inevitable burden. It would soon be the end of summer. He would have to bear another year. He felt like he hadn't lived yet—and maybe it was true—besides, this summer, he hadn't been doing much besides precisely that. He who liked to go out stayed inside and took care of the house, of the chores, of what there was to do; more precisely, of what there was to do and that nobody was doing. Loneliness was a tough life he could handle, but Neil sure wasn't an adult yet.

"Practicing, as usual."

"I can see that. Do you need a hand?"

"Nah," he decided, and put his stick down. "I was just about to take a break. Why are you here?"

"Way to welcome your buddy. Thought I'd swing by after practice," Kevin said as he waved his stick around as a greeting. He put his sport bag on the grass and leaned against the façade. "Not home yet, huh?"

Neil peeped at the alleyway. It was empty as it usually was, devoid of his father's shiny black Audi R8. It was the piece of the neighborhood, the car neighbors lingered on when they drove away; but to Neil, it meant something else entirely. When the car was there, parked on the driveway to their mansion, it meant his father was home. It meant so many things.

He didn't like to talk about it of course. In fact, Neil didn't like to talk at all.

"You still need a signature for the season," Kevin informed.

"I can fake it."

"You can," he conceded. "But then I'd know it's fake. And I'm the captain, I can't let you do that. You need your parents' green light for the team. It's not my responsibility to worry about you during games, okay?"

"You don't have to anything," Neil snapped. "I can handle myself."

"I know. I've seen you play. What I mean is that if anything happens to you, it's on us. Do you know the accident rates in lacrosse games?"

Neil rolled his eyes back into his head. He had heard this speech far more than he had enjoyed to listen to it. He scratched the back of his head and gave no answer, so Kevin eventually got the hint.

"Can't you ask your mom?"

"You know she hates that game almost as much as she hates my dad's guts."

Kevin's eyes reflected an odd question, something along the lines of 'and you?' and 'are you okay?', but he knew full well what Neil would reply to both of that. Neil was never any more or less than fine, no matter what, and they had done fighting about it long ago. Neil didn't like to talk, but he specifically didn't like to talk about his personal life, much less his parents, or what he called his genitors. But tonight, more than usual, it felt like it would take less to go furious, and that wasn't something he wanted to do. Not here, not now. Not like this.

It was Kevin's turn to sigh.

"We can talk about this later."

Neil sat on the edge of the backdoor steps, rubbing his eyes with fatigue. He had trained all afternoon, but he knew—he knew this was useless. Training or not, he'd never get in. He needed his father's signature, and his father wouldn't give it to him. He wasn't even there.

"Coffee at Eden's?" Kevin tried. It wasn't much, but it was sweet and tender. Eden's was the coffee place people their age usually hang at, and the place you were most likely to find Neil at any given moment. Maybe it was the coffee; maybe it was the waiter, Andrew, a mysterious goth who never seemed to align more than two words. Neither did Neil, actually, and Kevin always found it supremely funny.

He heard the car before he could even think of an answer. It was driving fast and angry, the way Nathan drove, and Neil froze instantly. He got off the steps, suddenly choking on his breath. "Is it him?" He wasn't ready. Oh god, he wasn't. He hadn't cleaned the house yet, hadn't checked on his mother, hadn't done the laundry. He hadn't vacuumed the floor.

Hadn't disappeared.

"No," Kevin said, frowning at the newcomer. The Mustang parked in the opposite alleyway, and both boys watched as the engine turned off. A boy came out of it. "No, that is definitely not your father."

The mysterious neighbor got out of his car as they both watched. All black, tall, dark-haired and pale-skinned, he looked every bit like a low-budget movie vampire who would dare venture into the sunlight without mystical protection. It wasn’t as discrete as they had hoped so as, soon enough, the boy looked up straight into Neil’s eyes. Neither looked away for a moment, and then the magic of it all was gone, whisked away by the summer breeze. He seemed every inch a mystery, and while Kevin frowned in frustration, Neil couldn’t tear his eyes off. It was something he had never seen, especially not in Roosevelt Street’s classy, high-end hypocritical neighborhood.

Neil saw him again later that night, in perfect discretion; perched on the rooftop of his bedroom like a little spy. He wasn’t doing any of that, actually—just running away, from what he didn’t know, but the urge to run was so strong it was the only escape he had come to find over the years. Whenever his father was home, it was more likely to find him up there than in his own room, or anywhere else for that matter. It wasn’t much but it did the trick.

And there was he, the nameless neighbor, taking the trash out at three a.m. in the morning. It was late, but he wasn’t alone: the door opened oh so slightly, and Neil recognized the silhouette or Mr. Moreau, their austere, lugubrious front door neighbor they barely talked to. It had come to his mind, a few times, that he was better off alone with his broken family than with Mr. Moreau, and witnessing such a thing comforted him in that way. The boy didn’t even seem to listen, too busy putting the trash in the trash can, and Neil noticed earphones dangling in the void, probably to his jean pocket. He wondered what kind of music would work enough to push a monster away, envied him a little. He, at least, was able to ignore this entire mess.

Neil took a drag of his cigarette and watched as the boy tiredly ran a hand in his hair and sighed. He couldn’t hear it from this far, but he could feel it, the way his chest inflated and emptied steadily, as though to find this calmness so out of reach. Moreau screeched something else Neil couldn’t decipher, and slammed the front the door. Not that the boy flinched at any of it, but it was easy to tell he wanted to run away—and, suddenly, Neil felt something familiar for him. Compassion, perhaps, or maybe sheer understanding. The need to run when everything was too much, when nothing seemed real enough; or maybe, a bit too real. He smashed his cigarette on the roof tile, where countless amounts of cigarette butts were already abandoned, and took a deep breath to counter the chilly air.

The boy’s shoulders slumped with fatigue and, in this particular, intimate moment, it was easy to tell he was emotionally exhausted, something Neil could get better than anyone else. Then he turned around, tugged on his earphones and went back inside.

Neil followed suit, spent a good thirty minutes cleaning his lacrosse stick and netting it tighter, and fell asleep in his sweats before he even realized he was drifting off.

 

He was woken up by Kevin, of course, who barged into his room without permission. It’s not like the Josten house was guarded by anyone—with his mother being sick, his father being away, and no siblings whatsoever, Neil was perfectly alone. Or so he thought.

“Wake up, sleepy head.” Kevin was one to talk. It took thirty minutes and three different alarm clocks to wake the man up, but that, he refused to admit.

Kevin was here to drag to private early practice, something Neil usually longed for every morning Kevin was available. They would drive to the school stadium and practice lacrosse for hours, the field completely theirs. All that went through Neil’s mind that morning, though, was “fuck off,” as he moaned into his pillow.

As usual, Kevin’s response was: “You wanna be part of the team or not? Work for it. Earn your place. If you wanna get in, then wake the fuck up and follow me. Laziness won’t get you too far.” It wasn’t laziness—it was exhaustion, but, that, Kevin didn’t know nor cared for.

They trained from seven to nine on the high school lax field, and Neil stumbled on a friend on his way back home. He was driving past the block, and stopped the engine right at Neil’s height. Neil leaned in through the open window and nodded a quiet greeting. He’d never been much of a talker.

This was Matt Boyd, a jock from high school just his age who, for some peculiar reason, seemed way older than he really was. Maybe it was his rugby-man’s build, maybe it was his broad shoulders and his friendly smile, his hoarse voice and the way he’d confidently spin his way through life like nothing could ever bring him down. Sometimes Neil envied him, though he didn’t know why. He often went for the fact that Matt was a backliner on the lax team, but he knew, for some reason, it didn’t stop there.

Matt gave a warm smile and slung an arm above the open window. “Early morning, huh? Did Kevin drag you there again?” It could have been mockery in his tone, hopelessness for Neil’s case, for Neil’s dreams; but it wasn’t, and perhaps that’s why threw Neil off the most. He wasn’t used to genuine people like Matt and sometimes, sometimes he’d turn back to his paranoid habits, wondering if each word wasn’t a blunt, well-masked lie.

“Like almost every morning, yes,” he simply said. Nothing much was needed from his part; besides, people like Matt always filled the conversation themselves. It was some sort of social gift Neil hadn’t inherited.

“Listen. I’m throwing a party tomorrow night. I’d have invited you sooner but I don’t have your number. That needs to be fixed, by the way,” he said, but by the way Neil nodded, he understood it wouldn’t be fixed today. “You know where I live, right?” It was a house hard to miss, big and bright and white, with the biggest pool Neil had ever seen. He’d never been there, not really, but as he walked past the block of Napoleon Street, it was hard to advert one’s eyes from it. Of course it was the perfect place to throw a high school party. Besides, Matt’s older brother had turned 21 the month before, which meant there would be plenty of substances Neil wouldn’t even dare think about. He’d never gotten drunk before—except once, perhaps—when he was young and stupid and experimenting with Kevin. Things happened that he sometimes wished he could forget.

“I do, I do,” he finally answered, daydreaming of the past.

“Cool. Then you’re invited. Bring your friends, okay? The more the merrier. Besides, my house is big enough for the entire school. If they don’t all show up it’s going to be pretty empty isn’t it? Oh and bring something to bath in, it’s a pool party.” Of course it was a pool party, Neil thought—it was soon August and the weather was hot and heavy ‘till late in the evening. Even nights had him opening his windows to get some air, the print of his entire frame left wet on the mattress. Oh he abhorred summer sweat.

He didn’t really plan on going, but he nodded nonetheless. “Sure.”

“Cool,” Matt said again. “I’ll see you there then. Come at nine.”

Friends, he didn’t have many. In fact, he only had Kevin. Kevin wasn’t one for parties, but he was one for drinking, he knew—and he thought better than to tell him about Matt’s party. Chances were Kevin would take advantage of the free alcohol to get black out drunk once more, meanwhile Neil wouldn’t have much to do, certainly not mingle with the crowd. He didn’t belong.

At least, not in rich kids’ parties.

Matt turned the engine on and left with a wave to which Neil didn’t respond. It’s only when the car disappeared and Neil straightened than he spotted the neighbor cleaning his car on the sidewalk of the alleyway. The boy looked up and felt his presence instantly, and it felt awkward not to say anything, so Neil cleared his throat and mumbled a greeting.

“Hi,” the boy said. His voice was lower than he’d expected, but young, way younger than he had imagined it to be. “Neighbor, right?” he asked without any kind of tenderness. It was barely polite enough.

Neil nodded, hand clutched on his duffel bag. He felt the need to run away to the house, but he didn’t. “Neil.”

“What?”

“I’m… Neil.”

The boy straightened up and looked at him for a moment, wiping his head on a dirty tissue. The hood of his car was so shiny he could see the boy’s reflection in it, but he tried not to look. Finally, he said: “Jean.” It felt like a victory, a small and stupid one, but a victory still, like the boy wasn’t used to giving his name around. Maybe he liked secrecy, maybe he abhorred his name, no one would ever know.

“Jean,” he repeated. The way it sounded on his tongue, slightly foreign, a little too French, was a delight. “Are you family?” he pointed at the house behind Jean. It was all bricks, noble built, somehow typically European.

“In a way,” he dryly replied. Neil took it as a cue to come home and nodded, embarrassed, already turning around to leave. Then he thought—why not invite him, too? He didn’t have anything to lose, except perhaps his credibility as a neighbor. But Jean seemed young enough to mingle with the kind of crowd Matt invited at his parties, and he knew Kevin would probably leave him alone to find some vodka. He didn’t want to leave Kevin alone, but he didn’t want to be alone either.

“Hey,” he said as he spun on his heels. “My friend’s hosting this stupid party tomorrow. Do you wanna come?”

He knew Jean didn’t seem in a good mood, much less a mood to say yes to anything, but it was worth a shot and he knew it. For some reason, though he hated mingling with strangers, he felt Jean and him would be more in their element together than with the rest of them. “You seem to be needing some… getaway time.” That was a euphemism from what he had seen the night before, but he wasn’t going to ever mention that.

Jean looked like he actually pondered on the question. He didn’t know why, but for a glorious second, Neil thought he would actually say yes.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Jean repeated, and swiped the hood of his Mustang once more. It was a dark green, almost black, but Neil couldn’t see the interior of it.

“Oh…” he said. “Okay. Never mind then.” And, with that, went back home, followed by Jean’s piercing gaze. Closing the door was relief, and he leaned against it for a minute, breathing deep and hard. He didn’t know why talking to Jean was so breath-taking, but it was; and, in a sense, it reminded it of himself.

He spent the rest of the day napping and studying, overwhelmed by the heat, and he thought of Jean, of his family, of what could possibly be happening inside that house.

Then Neil tiptoed along the empty corridor to his mom’s bedroom and slightly pushed the door open. Everything inside was pitch black and smelled of sweat and alcohol, if not worse. He walked to the bedside and carefully put a finger under her jaw to check her heartbeat. It was hard to tell, these days, if she was even alive. The substances, the drugs—all the things she had come to find for help instead of reality. He couldn’t blame her.

He went to bed without eating that night.

 

Neil prepped himself for the party with the awkwardness of someone who has never been to one. He tried on different shirts, a beanie, flannel, but settled for a plain grey T-shirt, black jeans and worn out sneakers. He figured after all people went to Matt’s party to get wasted, and that he wasn’t an outfit away from misery. He did nothing to his hair, barely put perfume on—and walked outside to wait for Kevin. It’s all but Kevin he found there, however: there was Jean, leaning against his shiny Mustang in nice dark clothes.

He smiled, surprised. “Changed your mind?”

Jean didn’t smile back. “Thought it’d be better off anywhere than here.” And, with that, he slid in the driver seat, silently inviting Neil to do the same. Understanding the difficulties of family more than he was supposed to, Neil didn’t comment. He was about to check his watch when Jean suddenly asked: “You coming or not?” and Neil hesitated for a minute. Kevin was soon supposed to pick him up still. “Waiting for someone?”

He pretended he wasn’t, shook his head and texted Kevin not to come by his house—that he had found ‘another way to get there’. For someone as practical, car-deprived and unsocial as Neil, it was nothing short of a miracle.

Neil found a way to the passenger seat and was suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of Jean’s Mustang. It smelled of leather and cigarettes, but he thought he wouldn’t mind that much. Seatbelt on, Jean turned the engine on and Neil shamelessly opened the glove compartment. It fell to his knees instantly, unveiling a dozen of vintage cassettes and mixtapes. He went through them religiously.

“Depeche Mode… Nine Inch Nails… don’t you have something more 2008?”

“2008 is cursed,” he shrugged. Just then he turned the radio on as the Pussycat Dolls started playing. “See?”

Neil chuckled. He fiddled with a cassette of Depeche Mode —Ultra, said the album— he had found, and realized he had never listened to any of that. “Can we… ?” he asked, and Jean nodded without bothering looking back. Neil put the cassette in and Jean pushed a button or two.

“Not this one,” Jean said. “Useless.”

“What?”

“Useless, the song. Track number six.”

Neil struggled to find the right buttons to push but, finally, when the song was almost over, managed to skip until the sixth track. He leant back in his seat and listened, mesmerized by the atmosphere of the song. It was something else, something else entirely, a whole another universe he had never paid attention to. He peeped at Jean, all dressed in black, with his black hair and his black shirt, his combat boots and his air of casual fury; and he imagined that was what the singer of Depeche Mode must have looked like.

“You like it?” he asked, monotone, but Neil could tell he loved his music more than he loved his car.

He nodded, silent. The lyrics couldn’t be unheard—hypnotizing, sensual as well, like a spell being cast in the passenger compartment. He tried not to put too much thought to it, but the more the song went on, the more Neil felt the urge to do something—anything. Drink, perhaps, something he never did and didn’t like to do, but would anyways. He wondered if Jean drank too. He looked like a drinker. In fact, he looked like a drug addict.

They could have learned more about each other but they barely got past the surface, Jean way too enigmatic for Neil’s mindless questions.

“How old are you?” he asked, curious.

“Eighteen. You?”

“Ah, seventeen.” Neil could taste the questions before they even came—but they didn’t, and silence fell over them like thunder. “You don’t ask me what I’m going to do later in life, or if I like school?”

“Do you?” Jean snapped back, half curious, half bored. He was hard to read, like he always had something on his mind but never quite showed.

Neil shut down. He hadn’t thought about his future in a long time, and each time he did, it never ended well. He knew he was supposed to inherit the family business, do as his father did, but the thought made him sick. He didn’t want to be his father.

“I don’t know yet.”

“That’s okay. I don’t know either,” Jean said, but then he added. “I work at the library down Copper Street but I don’t plan on doing this all my life. They took me in because I needed a job and they needed someone. Conveniently, I have just arrived here.”

“Why so? Why would anyone come in this shithole on their own will.”

“I dropped out of school. Had nowhere to go.”

“What are you doing at the old Moreau’s house?” Neil looked at him, puzzled, until Jean felt his gaze and went on.

“You probably know my father already.”

“He’s—he’s your father?”

Silence answered.

“I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. He is what he is.”

It made sense now: Jean’s light French accent, the way he seemed to be coming from nowhere in particular, and why he had landed in Moreau’s driveway. He was a Moreau himself. Jean Moreau. Neil didn’t even know the guy had a son.

“I used to live with my uncle in France. He died of a heart attack and the house wasn’t his. So I had nowhere to go but home, with my estranged and strange parens,” he shrugged like it was nothing much.

Neil hesitated. He felt like talking about his own father, telling him the truth, letting it all out—but he couldn’t. Somehow he couldn’t. Maybe he feared Jean would run away if he did.

They arrived at the party before the end of the cassette, with the help of Neil’s vague directions and Jean’s perspicacity. It didn't take long before he found Kevin, however, but before he could turn around and introduce Jean, the boy was already gone. He searched for him for a long moment then decided to join Kevin, who offered a shot with a grin. He drank it. And the following. And countless others. By the time he realized what was happening, he was in a room with Allison Reynolds, a gorgeous blonde who never seemed decided to stay on good terms with her ex-boyfriend. This week they were off, which explained Neil’s presence in the pristine guest bedroom of Matt’s luxurious house; not that he had climbed up on the bed by himself—Allison had pushed him.

Allison was, like all cheerleaders, off limits. She was one of those beautiful girls destined to a grand future, with a handsome husband, and a great fortune. Not the stay-at-home, overweight and sex-repulsed kind. She was a stereotype by herself, untouchable, out of reach, and yet she had her hands on Neil tonight.

She kissed him on the lips and Neil didn’t think of dodging. By the time they had come to the tongue she was already on him, grinding her body in angles that shouldn’t have been possible. Neil awkwardly brushed her sides and let his hands rest on the bed, unsure what to do, unsure if he even had to do something at all. Girls like Allison liked control; they liked to do things on their own because they could, and they did it damn well.

“Allison, wait…” he said, but she didn’t hear him over the loud r’n’b music playing downstairs. He put a hand on her shoulder but she shuddered at the touch, and when Allison finally opened her eyes, Neil looked terrified.

“That’s not what you meant, right?” she guessed, unnerved.

He shook his head. He’d never envisioned his night in a bedroom with Allison Renyolds, as dreamy as that sounded. He found her beautiful, for sure—but kissing her felt wrong. Maybe it was because of Seth, her on-and-off boyfriend, or maybe it was because he didn’t know what the hell he was doing here. He had had way too much alcohol and Kevin was no example to follow. As pristine and healthy as Kevin’s athlete diet was, alcohol was the exception to everything.

“You’re right, it’s a bad idea,” she said as she wiped her mouth and sat next to him, breathless.

Neil lied there, leaning on his elbows, still shaken up and not knowing what to say. “You… you still love him?”

“Seth?” she laughed. “Nah,” she said, but it was easy to tell it was a lie. Allison could die without a blink except when she was drunk—and currently, it was hard to tell which of the two had had more. “Guess we’ve got someone else on our minds,” she murmured.

Neil looked up, unamused. “No, what.”

“Come on, you’ve got the look of a starstruck lover. You didn’t even respond to my kisses.”

“So what?”

“So you’re gay, hon.”

Neil chuckled—and she chuckled in her turn. They were way too drunk to be able to remember this conversation tomorrow, so Neil took the advantage to let go and stop caring. He didn’t care what Allison said—what he did care was that, fortunately, they had stopped mid foreplay and were lying down on the bed, talking about things that shouldn’t matter like two old friends finally reunited. It felt odd, opening up to her, but Allison was a good listener when she wanted. She was too drunk to judge and too tired to care.

He realized they were becoming friends.

“Why did you pick me?”

“Easy target,” she shrugged. “You looked innocent and lost and I needed someone to kiss.”

“Why aren’t you with Seth?” he said. He knew enough about them to know their reputation, and the rare times he had exchanged a few words with Seth had never ended well. Neither had a good temper. As for Allison, he had seen her at school —how could one miss her?— but they had never gone down to talking, not once. It wasn’t like they had much in common, at least he didn’t think until tonight, perhaps.

“Because he’s probably with another girl.”

“How do you know that?”

She turned to him, strands of hair in the way. She looked sweet, beautiful, untouched. “I don’t know. I just do. You feel it, when someone’s breaking your heart.”

Neil looked at her without realizing, without understanding—then stared at the ceiling. Minutes later thy were going downstairs hand in hand —mostly to keep themselves from falling down— and parted on the last step.

“You’ve got my number now,” she slurred, drunk, and grabbed someone’s red cup. “Text me okay?”

Neil didn’t answer; he nodded, slightly so, but she was already gone.

Allison had always been out of his league, and he’d never been too interested in girls anyways.

He caught a glimpse of Renee Walker, a non-drinker, getting a hold of Allison and bringing her to a chair and nodded to himself once more. Allison vaguely pointed in his way, and Renee looked up as she followed. Their eyes met and Renee smiled warmly. He tried to imitate.

Neil searched the party for Kevin or Jean but found neither and decided to go home by foot. But there was he, outside: Jean was fighting with some dude. Neil intervened, taking Jean aside before more punches could be thrown. He had no idea why the fight had started, but Jean was fuming.

“Let me go!” he yelled at Neil.

“Right, go away. You’re a coward, just like your dad,” the other guy snarled.

Neil jumped before Jean to keep him from hurling at the guy. He grabbed both of his shoulders and held him in place, feeling his warmth radiating through his sweaty T-shirt. He realized it wasn’t sweat but beer, and figured that was how the fight had started somehow.

“Jean, stop! He’s not worth it,” he slurred. If he cared about his father, there were better ways to show it than to fight back. Being a coward had nothing to do with it, at least so thought drunk Neil. “You drank too much to drive. Come, let’s go home.”

It didn’t take much fighting to convince Jean to go—he followed on his own, head down like he’d lost something. Neil waited for him on the wide road of Matt’s street and then they were there, walking home in the middle of the night.

“You know, I lied to you,” Jean says eventually.

“Why?”

“Why did I lie? Because I don’t know you.”

Neil didn’t say anything. It was understandable, more than anything. The trust issues he had built up after his father were immense, and he couldn’t bring himself to judge someone who had done the same no matter the reason. He didn’t keep his eyes off of him, mesmerized by how vulnerable Jean seemed to appear.

“I came her because of judiciary reasons. It was either the correctional house or my father’s. I used to get into too many fights, too many problems. Then I dropped out of school. Figured one would be better than the other, but which? I’m starting to regret my decision. Sometimes I wonder if going to the correctional house wouldn’t be best.”

Neil tried to make him stay, though he didn’t know why, though he didn’t even know if his words had any effect.

“Anything is better than a fucking prison. At least when you’re here, you’re free to do whatever you want, even if that means your father isn’t happy with it. Besides, you’re eighteen, you found a job…”

“And enemies,” he laughed. “I have quite the reputation here. That’s because of my dad.”

“Why?” Neil asked, but the words shook him with how personal they were, with how relatable they sounded.

“He’s a drunk, working in a hardware store. Better things to be as a father than that.”

“Is he trying?” Neil asked, at least.

Jean pretended to think. He didn’t reply.

When they reached their homes, Jean asked about Allison. “Is she your girlfriend? The blonde girl.”

“Allison?”

Jean stayed silent. He didn’t know her name anyways.

“Nah. We’re not even friends. At least I don’t think we are.”

“Okay,” Jean nodded. “Okay.”

Neil’s surprise gave way to curiosity—he hadn’t anticipated such a question, not from Jean, of all people; and he and Allison had nothing of a romantic relationship, no matter if she had dragged him upstairs for some fun or not. He wondered why the question.

Jean turned around and walked off to his house. Neil stood there a long, long moment, watching him leave then disappear, standing in the driveway of his own empty house like he had nowhere to go. Then he went to bed and stared at the ceiling, heart pumping, unable to ward off to sleep.

He remembered the way they shook hands as a goodnight, solemnly, drunkly, and he thinks he might be in love.


	2. Chapter 2

As per usual, the house was empty when he woke up. No sound, no one. Nobody to say hello to, nobody to ignore. Being Neil Josten always felt lonely in the morning. It was a feeling few people could get, like being the sole survivor of a massive catastrophe, or getting out alive of a deadly car accident decimating your whole family. On mornings like this, Neil felt like that was the case anyway. He was alone after all.

He could have texted Kevin to come by, given his geographical proximity, but it was nine in the morning and he didn't really want him to come over. And so he comforted himself in his own solitude, thinking to himself that was the way to be, and took note not to get drunk ever again. God, he felt so sick to his stomach, he didn't even know why. He hadn't slept much, and he thought he might as well go back to bed.

He stood by the stairs and pondered for a minute, then shyly pushed the curtain off the window and stared. The Mustang wasn't here. He swallowed as though disappointed, pursed his lips, and went on his way.

The fridge was empty, the laundry was undone, the dinner table full of taxes nobody had filed. It was a poor's life, Neil thought, even though they didn't need money—when his father was away, it was like they did. No money on the shelves, nothing to feed himself with: he was truly, truly alone. For a split second he got angry at his mother for not being a functioning, adulting parent; then regretted it. His mother, after all, was the only good thing of this household. It's just that she couldn't handle reality. Something like that.

He sat on the porch and took a cigarette out of his pack. Cigarettes for breakfast weren't really recommnended, especially as nauseous as he was, but he didn't have anything else to eat and he had no money to fetch something at the grocery store. But halfway through his nicotine fix, the familiar roar of a car disturbed his peace. He looked up, and there it was, the Mustang, parked on the opposite alleyway.

Neil watched as Jean got out of the car, oblivious that he was being observed, and Neil smirked: as the day before, Jean was entirely dressed in black, and he radiated goth energy from a mile away. He wondered if that was just a stunt for the looks, or if Jean really was a problem guy. Someone he shouldn't talk to. Someone he most likely would talk to anyway.

“Hey, emo guy,” he sang. It wasn't like him to start a conversation, especially not with a stranger—but he couldn't resist the need to have Jean talk to him again. He didn't have his number, and had no clue how to get close to him again, so that was as good as he could get.

Jean turned around, visibly surprised that someone had been watching all along, and played with his car keys with a snark. 

“Didn't take you for a voyeur,” he said, the last word pronounced in an accent so French he almost didn't get it. Sometimes he'd forget Jean wasn't from here. Neither was Moreau, that acrid neigbor he had probably never talked to. For a minute he wondered how was life inside that house, too.

Maybe he preferred loneliness to a father.

“You disturbed my break,” Neil shrugged.

“Break, huh? I didn't think smoking was part of a morning routine. You shouldn't smoke,” Jean said as he walked over to him. He crossed the road and stopped a foot short of him, then opened his palm as though to ask for something.

Neil frowned. Finally, he took the hint and gave him the cigarette. He expected Jean to smother it on the ground with the heel of his boot, but he took a drag instead. Neil didn't take his eyes off of him a single second, like the sight was something mesmerizing he had never seen before. He recalled the smell of Jean's car and figured he smoked, too.

Smoking suited Jean for a curious amount of reasons.

“Neither should you.” That was all he found.

Neil realized he always put an act with strangers—neighbors, passerbys, grocery clerks—in an attempt to please them somehow, though he didn't do any effort at school. But with Jean, who was both a stranger and a neighbor, someone he, at first glance, shouldn't even befriend for a second, he felt more himself than he had in a long time.

Maybe it had to do with the fact that Jean was unapologetically himself as well.

Jean tugged on the collar of his turtleneck and gave the cigarette back. It seemed he was about to turn and leave, so Neil hurried:

“What are you doing out so early?”

Jean looked at him as though it was obvious, then pointed towards his car. “Didn't want to leave my car there longer than necessary, with all these drunks hanging around after morning. We walked home, remember?”

How could Neil forget such a thing? Granted, he didn't remember much of the night, but the highlight of it had been Jean under every angle. Jean driving, Jean fighting, Jean walking him home. Or maybe he had been the one walking him one?

“Speaking of which,” Jean said without any link, “do you have flour?”

“Flour?”

“My father wants some but is too lazy to go to the grocery store. Scratch that, I'm too lazy to go to the grocery store.” 

“Uh... yes, yes I do.”

He got up and took one last drag of his cigarette before grinding it under his shoe, and went inside. He expected Jean to wait outside like any normal neighbor would, but Jean wasn't the generic type—he was already inside, watching every corner of the house.

“Nice place.”

Neil almost jumped at the words, frowned, and cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

It was as useless as it was stupid, but Neil didn't know what else to say.

“Sounds lonely around here. Besides, there's no car in the driveway. Got any parents?”

“Uh?”

“Parents. You know, genitors.”

“Yeah,” he said again, idly searching the cupboards for some flour. His father wasn't exactly something he wanted to bring up, and Jean seemed to get the cue—or disinterested himself in the topic. 

Neil came back to the living room with a bag of flour, where Jean was standing hands in the pockets of his black jeans. He looked at ease, like he'd been there a couple times. 

“Thanks, kiddo,” Jean said as he grabbed it. 

“I'm seventeen,” he said, half a question. “I'm not a kid anymore.”

“I know. It's a joke.”

The moment lingered and Jean held out his hand. “Thanks again, dude.”

Neil watched his hand for a moment before shaking it, and it last slightly longer than it should have. It's Jean who broke the silence and brought his hand back to his thigh.

“I'd say I'd give it back to you but I have no idea what my genitor is planning on cooking. I'll owe you one, at least.”

“You mean your father?”

“Whatever. Same thing.” He smiled and turned around, leaving the house without waiting for a goodbye, and Neil could only watch him leave, agape.

Every interaction with him seemed to be overwhelming, terrible, like something he had never done before and didn't know how to do. He scratched the back of his neck and went upstairs to fetch his lacrosse stick.

Hours later on the school lacrosse field, Kevin and Neil abandoned. It wasn't quite giving up; more like a break, as both of them rarely ever stopped playing. They were lacrosse-obsessed as much as they were alive, and their friendship was mainly based on their love for the sport. They had met in freshmen year when Kevin had caught him red-handed playing lacrosse on the field before the team's training. It wasn't explicitly stated that non-players could use the field, but Kevin decided to keep it a secret anyway—until he saw Neil's potentiel, almost as great as his, and went to his coach to tell him about it. 

Sadly, Neil needed a signature to enter the team. It was the school policy. Now he was in his last year of high school, or soon would, and he didn't know what he would do without lacrosse. While Kevin was bound to get a sport scholarship, Neil would most likely never go to university. What would he do there anyways?

“When is your father coming home?”

Neil sighed. “Who can tell.”

Kevin turned his head towards him, arms around his knees. “Who was it with you at the party last night? The guy next door?” 

Neil peeped at the sky. It was still bright and hot, like one would expect of the end of July. There was more to lacrosse to their relationship than it seemed to be: last summer, Neil and Kevin had kissed each other plenty of times. They hadn't labelled this odd thing between them, but looking back at it, Neil could tell it was a relationship that simply hadn't been named. From time to time, Kevin would get overly jealous, and then Neil would rememer with sullen nostalgia the way he felt for the boy last summer. It hadn't been a first love, but it had been a first kiss, way before the girls and the parties he was so little interested in.

Now he couldn't see much more than a friend.

“Just a friend.” It was a lie—they weren't even friends. “His name is Jean.”

“Jean,” Kevin repeated with a heavy American accent. It was more mocking than it was mesmerized. “What a weird name. You know Seth has asked about you?”

“What?”

“Yeah, he told Allison he'd kill you. Quite literally. You better hide when school starts, if you don't bump into him earlier that is.”

“Thank you for the support, Kevin.”

“Here for that. What happened between you and Allison anyways?”

“Nothing... nothing much. Really.”

“Well, beware then. You know how Seth can be.”

Oh, he did. Seth Gordon, Allison's eternal on-and-off boyfriend, was a depressive, drug-addicted junkie who likes to fight. Not just fight, but win; and he was good at it. Excellent at it. He'd sent a few guys to the hospital just for talking to Allison, and it was no secret how jealous and possessive he could be. No one knew how Seth really behaved among his circle, but people knew better than to flirt with Allison. Except Neil, perhaps.

It wasn't quite that he liked girls—he had always feigned distant interest, practically none, and though Allison was stunning, he didn't want anything out of her. It was that Neil couldn't possibly follow the rules, and he didn't care about Seth Gordon for a second.

Maybe he was suicidal, maybe plain stupid.

“Why don't you tell Seth you're with someone?” Kevin asked, tightening the rope of his stick.

“Because it's not true.” Neil played with the tiny lacrosse ball, sending it into the air and receptioning it perfectly in his palm every time. “I'm not a liar.”

“Come on,” Kevin choked. Neil was brutally honest, but he could lie his eyes closed. He was as good at it as Kevin was good at lacrosse: a professional liar, playing truths with the tip of his fingers.

When he came home, Neil quickly realized there was absolutely nothing to eat. Though he was an expert at skipping dinners, he started walking to the grocery store with the little money he had saved and his backpack. It's only ten minutes on the road that Jean slowed down at his height, rolling the passenger window down.

“Need a ride?”

“How did you know?”

“I didn't. Just saw you walking and figured you'd need me.” 

Neil didn't reply. He didn't need anyone, that was for sure; but his feet were starting to hurt and he was too tired to play pride. He nodded, quietly at first, than mouthing a thank you as he opened the passenger door.

Jean said nothing, trailing behind with hands in his pockets as Neil walked the alleys of the store, searching for something cheap enough. He needed two days worth of food, or so he assumed was the time his father would take to come home again. He didn't know if he should enjoy solitude or wish his father was home already; he didn't have money, but at least, he didn't have his father around. He thought maybe that was something Jean could get, but he didn't say it.

“That?” he asked to himself. “Nah.” 

It went on for five long minutes and Jean was starting to check his mobile phone when suddenly, Neil bumped into someone in the turn of an alley, right before cereals and cakes. 

“Josten?”

Neil looked up in horror. It was Seth, standing there with Allison behind. Allison's face quickly turned into something tragic, like she realized Neil didn't have an escape route, no alternative, and absolutely no chance of getting out of here without a black eye.

Jean frowned, though he didn't know who either of those people were.

“I didn't know you and Allison were back together,” he said when he noticed Allison's presence.

“I'm gonna fucking kill you!” Seth gritted between his teeth before he threw the first punch.

Neil put his hand to his cheek and slightly pushed. It hurt so badly he could have cried, but he was better than that. Suddenly he remembered Kevin's words.

“Relax, dude. Nothing happened. I'm with someone.”

Seth's eyes examined his expression, searching for truth, but Neil looked as placid as could be. Neil frowned, wanting to reciprocate the punch, but decided to play it safe when a clerk turned his head towards them. A little more and he would call the police, even just as a matter of prevention—and Neil couldn't afford such luxury. His father would kill him.

“Who?” Seth asked.

He was about to mumble Kevin's name when suddenly Jean intervened.

“Me.”

“You?” Seth raised a brow, and Neil almost followed.

Nobody spoke. Allison looked at them both, then retained a smirk. She put her hand on Seth's shoulder. “Come on, let's go.” She was holding a back full of groceries, and they probably had better places to be.

It took a minute of cold eyeing, but, finally, Seth relaxed and nodded. “You better.” 

He turned around and Allison slipped her hand into his. They disappeared behind the fish alley, and Neil choked on his breath.

“What was that?” Jean asked.

“I ask you,” Neil returned.

“Don't thank me. I just saved your ass,” Jean snarled, almost cold.

“Yeah,” Neil whispered after a moment. “Thanks I guess.” 

They continued shopping, but all Neil wanted to do was go home. He had had enough of people for today, and things between him and Jean had just gotten awkward. In the car on the way back, Neil braced himself for his own curiosity.

“So you like... boys?”

Jean shrugged. “Do you?”

Neil didn't answer. “I suppose I do.” 

“Then I suppose I do.”

Neil looked at him drive until Jean looked back. Finally, he smiled.

Eventually he parked in Moreau's alleyway and they both unbuckled their seatbelts. 

“I'd show you around and take care of that nasty bruise, but... my father isn't exactly the neighbor-welcoming type.” 

“It's okay. I've got it.”

“You sure?” Jean asked, just for the matter.

Neil waited and smiled once more. It wasn't a casual thing to do, not for him; but Jean appealed it. Maybe it was kindness, or what seemed to be so, maybe it was the smell of Jean's car and how familiar it was beginning to be. Maybe it was how quickly he had jumped in to help. Whatever that was, he got out of the car and walked home.

  
  


Neil's father came back exactly one day later, in the early morning. Neil woke up face against the pillow and right up, knowing fully who that was: only one person awaited at the house, and it was in all ways a bad omen. 

Nathan Wesninski was a tall, tall man, all opposite of Neil. What they had in common, though, was the rest: chilly blue eyes and red-tinted hair that shone under the sun. The freckles on his nose made him look more approachable than he really was, and his smile large and wide almost welcoming—but Neil knew better. His father was something violent, something terrible, something he didn't want to come home to.

“Nathaniel?” was all he said when he passed the door. It was eight a.m. but he was expecting his son to be awake, like every time he came home. It wasn't a special day: no date set, no warm welcome-home, only a simple conversation that would last up to five minutes and a slight nod of the head. Still, whenever he came home, it felt like he'd never left.

'It's Neil,' he could have said, but his father had named him Nathaniel after himself, and that would always be how he refered to him. The rules were simple. 

  
  


  
  


It was about nine in the evening when Neil climbed up the roof again. He took a drag of his cigarette, closed his eyes, and only opened them when a sudden noise broke the silence. There he was again, Jean: looking around like he needed an escape, slamming the door of his house. Things must have been hard inside that house too.

His phone rang and he dropped his cigarette, fumbling for the phone. By the time he had put it on silent, Jean was looking right at him, arms crossed. He had to almost scream for Neil to hear him.

“Spying on me?”

“Never,” Neil said, though he had secretly hoped Jean would be out tonight, just to catch a glimpse. Jean didn't look like he was about to stay, but he didn't move still.

“How about you come down and we talk like normal people?” 

Neil thought about it. His father was asleep by now, too exhausted by the trip home—he could easily escape the house. He nodded, then yelled back an okay.

He closed the door behind him, carefully so, as not to wake up his father up. Then he walked up to Jean, crossing th road like he seemed to be doing so many times lately. He who had never been to Moreau's without a reason was there, once again, gravitating towards Jean despite himself.

“Hey,” Jean said softly when he came to his height.

“Sounded rough inside,” Neil said, gesturing to Moreau's house.

Jean shrugged. “Always is.” He frowned, then, reaching out to brush Neil's jaw. An ugly bruise was flowering, and there was no wonder where he had gotten it. “I don't remember that guy punching you in the jaw.”

“That's because he didn't.”

Neil looked away, and Jean took his hand back.

“Is it him?”

Their eyes crossed. Neil felt his heart flutter, wondered if that was what a heart attack felt like. “Who?”

“Don't play stupid with me. We have the same kind of father, don't we?” 

Neil went awfully silent. 

“You shouldn't let him touch you. Not again.” 

“Don't have much of a choice.” Nathan was, in all forms, bigger and stronger than Neil. That, and the fact that Neil didn't know how to fight, despite being that feisty and provocative.

“Of course you do. If you don't tell him off, I will.”

“Don't,” Neil seriously said, frown almost cold. “He'll kill you.” He almost meant it.

Jean shrugged. “Do guys like me hang on to life that much?”

This line made Neil sad. How a guy like Jean could give up on things so easily and yet keep fighting, it was beyond him. He felt like there was nothing to understand, like Jean was too complex for his small, tired brain.

“Anyways,” Jean sighed. “Give me your phone.” 

“What?”

“Give it to me.” 

Neil complied, unlocked it and watched as Jean typed something on his phone. It was a moment before Jean gave it back with a smirk.

“Now whenever you need a ride, you don't have to pretend.”

“I don't--” he started, before noticing how enlarged Jean's smirk was. “A joke,” he remembered.

“You learn fast.” 

Jean reached out again and brushed his bruises again. Then he took his hand back and turned around to get in his car. He didn't propose the passenger seat to Neil, and Neil didn't ask. Instead he watched the Mustang go further down the street, and wondered how he had just gotten his hot goth neighbor's number.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi loves. i'm less into fanfics lately as i started [my writeblr here](http://carnalbanshee.tumblr.com) (and deleted my other blogs so that's the only place you'll find me!) and i'm sooo into my original wips lately. you're free to find me on wattpad (link on my tumblr) or to just wait till i update my fanfics, which i will sure do! not forgetting you.

Summer days seemed to stretch to the point of being unrealistic, and Neil didn't know what to do with them. It had been a week since he'd gotten Jean's number, and he hadn't received a single text. He had come to the realization, eventually, that Jean didn't have his; but he couldn't bring himself to send something. Anything. 

Kevin called it stupidity. He called it common sense. Which, in fact, was no more than a little bit of pride mixed with shylyness. That, Kevin also called stupid.

“Am I gay?” Neil asked as they walked downtown to their favourite spot, an old coffee shop where they never risked bumping into people they knew.

Kevin snorted. “Are you making fun of me now?”

“No, I'm serious.”

Kevin stopped dead in his tracks and examined him for a long time. “I don't know, are you? Do you remember perhaps that we dated each other once?” It was hard to forget, to tell the truth, how it had been Neil's first times and first tries and first fails. Now they were friends and nothing much more and it seemed, at times, he could almost forget about that time. “It's the neighbor isn't it?” he guessed.

It wasn't difficult to figure it out: that Neil was gay, or that Neil ahd a crush; but Kevin had never said anything about the former. Neil had always tried to find out who he was, tried to fit in without really liking it. As for Kevin, he couldn't possibly let his reputation be touched by the fact he had kissed a guy and liked it. Officially, Kevin was as straight as the next one, but when doors were closed, Kevin knew better. He could spot a misfit when he saw one.

“You shouldn't,” he simply said to Neil, who dodged the question by resuming their walk to the coffeeshop. “He's nothing but bad seed I can tell.”

“And I'm not?”

“You're difficult, it's different.”

“I'm... difficult,” he tried, warping the words around his tongue. It didn't seem right, like Kevin was missing something. Probably a lot more than he thought.

“You know what I mean,” Kevin sighed as he put his lacrosse bag on a vacant chair.

“No, actually, I don't.”

Neil followed and slumped down the first chair he found, crossing his arms on his sweat-glued t-shirt as the last rays of sunshine shone in his eyes, making them clear as ice.

“You're being difficult right now,” Kevin pointed as a fair example.

“I'm not difficult Kevin. I'm just me. And he's not what you think... he's nice. He gets it.”

“Gets what?”

Neil stayed silent. He hadn't per say shared his open heart with Jean, but it felt, sometimes, like he had plenty of times. “Forget I said that,” he sighed in his turn, and the waiter arrived.

It was another kind of misfit—all dressed in black and sharp features, someone as elegant and as nonchalant as Jean. He made the link right then and there, and stared at Andrew's face for a longer time than he probably should have for a stranger.

“What is it this time,” Andrew drawled out, already bored. He took out his notepad and waited for them to choose something on the menu they knew by heart already.

“You look familiar,” Neil said.

Andrew frowned like Neil was being stupid. “You've been there more times than I can remember, and I remember things well.”

Kevin laughed at that. Neil brushed it off and his mind shut down, letting Kevin order the coffee he always took; wandering in ways he rarely did. He imagined Jean parking his car right there, on the coffee shop's parking lot, digging his combat boots into the gravel and smiling ghostly at him. Barely a smile; a thin hiatus of a mouth, cut open like he couldn't control it—and shutting it right away. It was how Jean smiled anyways: rapidly, like an accident. Like he didn't want to be seen smiling. Not by Neil at least.

Then he came back to himself and watched Andrew leave, idly staring at his ass.

“And you ask me if you're gay,” Kevin shook his head, exasperated. “You're pathetic.”

  
  


  
  


  
  


Jean didn't reappar until Saturday that week, and when he did, Neil couldn't help but smile. He had gone out for a run late in the evening, liking the way summer temperatures made it hot and easy until nine p.m., and there was he, standing before Neil's door like a rude neighbor. Which, in retrospect, he kind of was.

“What are you doing here?” Neil panicked at the sight of the door. He imagined his father flying it open already, shouting at Jean to never come back on this porch again.

“Hello to you too.”

“If my father finds you here...”

“He what?” Jean defied. His tone was cold and arrogant, but Neil could decipher a slight point of hesitation. If Jean was afraid of Nathan, he made a good job hiding it. “I'm here to pick you up anyways, I'm not staying.”

“Pick me up?” Neil stupidly repeated.

“Yes. Renee holds a party at her house in less than half an hour. She invited me. I figured I'd tell you to come along.”

“Renee?”

“We met at the party,” he shrugged. “Wanna come or not?” he pressed, a little exasperated by how lost Neil was.

“Uhh... yes. Yeah I'm coming.”

Jean's jaw clenched and unclenched in a retained smile. His icy eyes went warm for a second.

“Good. Shower and change, I'm picking you up in ten.”

“Ten?” he repeated again, agape.

“Don't make me regret this,” Jean snarled as he crossed the road. He gave a gentle tap on the roof of his car and disappeared inside the house.

It took five minutes for Neil to realize he was going to a party with Jean, and five more to realize it was a date of sorts. Five to shower, and five more to stumble in his bedroom and try clothes after clothes, finding them all as ugly as the precedent. Eventually he settled on a red t-shirt and a washed out black jacket, eternally wearing worn out sneakers and ripped jeans he should have fixed a long time ago.

Jean was already waiting in the alleyway, parked behind Nathan's car—a bold, dangerous move, he reckoned, but a charming one—and Neil didn't waste one precious second, hopping into the passenger seat as Jean turned the engine on. Neil noticed Jean was wearing a leather jacket, and couldn't help but smell what seemed to be a new perfume.

The party was hosted by Renee Walker, a believer in all things good and fair, far from Jean's cynicsm. Neil didn't know when or how they had befriended each other, but the smile he put on when he spotted Renee in the doorframe was as foreign as it was false. It could have been warm, but Jean didn't do warm. Renee didn't take too much note of it and nodded, letting them in.

“Here. Put your jackets there. They're all in the living room.”

What Renee called 'all' was, in fact, a tiny group of people exchanging what Neil figured was a blunt. He frowned at the assembly.

“Is it your party?” he asked Jean, mocking.

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “You don't do that with your friends? You know, reuniting people you actually like instead of getting drunk in overcrowded, dimly lit rooms?”

The room was dimly lit, with a tone of red, but Neil didn't comment on it.

“They're smoking marijuana,” he noted.

“I never said we wouldn't,” Jean smirked. There he was—finally.

Jean left him in the doorframe and greeted everyone generally, while Renee took the appropriate time to introduce each and every one of them. On the far left of the red velvet couch was Laila, an all-grin girl whose dark skin shone glitter all over—then Jeremy, a sunshine of a boy who seemed oddly at ease anywhere, with his wide brown eyes and his beach-tone skin – and finally, Sara, the warm opposite of Laila: a little quiet, a little snarky, but warm still. Neil turned to Jean in long, decomposed frown.

Those are your friends? he meant to ask, but the words didn't make it as far. Jean understood still. He grinned, liking the surprise. He didn't know Renee for as long as he'd known the others, and going away had meant friendship wouldn't necessaily linger over the miles, but these three had managed to remain there no matter what. Jean wasn't one to go ask for help when he needed some; but it seemed to Neil that those four innocent souls would insist of giving theirs.

“Come, come sit here,” Laila smiled at him, tapping the space next to her. Neil shyly sat down and looked around: beers, liquors, cigarettes and more things he was not supposed to see. This was no different than the parties he had been to, except the committee was far smaller, and they did things in such a manner that it felt like they were doing nothing wrong. Maybe this is why Neil accepted the beer they offered him; maybe this is why he took the blunt they passed his way without thinking twice about it. A little bit couldn't harm, he thought—and he took a drag.

Things slowly but surely took their time to distort. First, distance; what seemed unbelievably close stretched out safely, and what had been far out of reach became possible in every way. The way a few drags could reshape his mind was beyond him, so he smoked again, and again, until eventually he couldn't lift himself off the couch. Laila slung a friendly arm around him and he found himself surprised when he didn't mind.

Jean watched with his composed expression, as ever, examining his ever move and, just perhaps, watching over him. He said nothing. The music was loud and chill, slower than Neil had first thought it was, and Sara talked way too loudly for Jean to ever hope join the conversation anyways.

“So where are you from?” Jeremy asked as he declined yet another cigarette. This was no blunt, but Jeremy didn't smoke, though the chances were spending all that time with stoners would make him a little bit high. Renee didn't drink or smoke, but that Neil already knew, and he watched them both with a far-off frown like he couldn't quite realize how much dedication it took. He envied them for a moment, then let himself fall back into the comfortable haze of the drugs.

“I'm from around here,” he said, drowsy. He couldn't be more specific.

Everyone grinned, and Jean shook his head, blunt in hand. He looked so elegant in that particular moment that Neil forgot he was being spoken to.

“I meant what school?” Jeremy tried again, warm and polite.

Neil turned his attention to the group before the dull train of reality could catch up. “I'm from...” he thought, and found out it took inimaginable effort to remember. “Palmetto High.”

“You're in... high school?” Sara Alvarez asked, confused. It seemed to her that she had missed something on the conversation, but nothing had been said about anything. Neil was still a stranger and would remain so. The drugs only made him more conciliant.

“He's in high school,” Jeremy confirmed, looking at the way Neil's cheeks went pink. He gave a slight peek towards Jean but looked away instantly, embarrassed.

“It's okay,” Renee smiled. “They're only a few years older.” She explained how old they all were, telling him what college they attended, what they were majoring in, and if they had gone to P-High in their grand teenage years; but when it came to Jean, she mysteriously skipped all information, probably figuring Jean had said it all. It left Neil frowning in wonder, and it didn't disappear until the drugs did too.

He knew Jean was eighteen and that he worked at the local library, but that was about it. It was far from enough. Neil's foot started tapping against the floor in frustration, until Laila gently pushed a palm against his knee.

“Calm down, love. What's the matter?” She seemed slightly worried, and suddenly Jean's eyes were glued on him. “Is it the drugs? Some people don't take it that well. There's a spare room upstairs if you want to calm down.”

“Nah,” he declined. “I'm fine.”

He went to the bathroom five minutes later, but stumbled upon Jean who, door unlocked, was swallowing some pink pills he couldn't make the name of. There was bottle, no plastic wrapper to get any information out of it, and Neil decided to stay put. Jean gave him a look and said nothing, getting out of the bathroom after a few silent seconds. They brushed against each other and Neil's remnants of marijuana made him close his eyes for an instant, savouring the way his spine shivered all the way up—and locked the door.

Then came the drinks. Colorful, sugary, alcoholic drinks—and it's surprisingly Renee who mixed them all. She made sure everyon had a glass in their hand at all point, which, for the drinkers, made it all the quicker. Soon enough Neil was drunk, way before he could realize so, and then he was on his way home, Jean's keys dingling in his hand like a far-off music forgotten in the distance. There they were, the two of them again. He couldn't remember how long they had stayed at Renee's. Hell, he didn't even remember saying goodbye to any of them. Suprisingly, he missed the little group already, though he blamed it on the alcohol stiring the emotions out of him in his stead. At least he wanted to be polite.

“You know,” Jean started. “Parties aren't my thing. Not these ones actually.”

Neil couldn't tell which kind of party he was referring to—but he didn't ask, as something more urgent came to his mind. “Speaking of which... What was that, at Matt's party?”

“The party the other day?” Jean asked, uninterested.

He nodded but didn't need to: Jean was already sighing deep. It meant he knew exactly what Neil was asking, and it meant he didn't like the fact that he had to answer. Neil could have told him he didn't need to know, after all, whose business was it except Jean's—but he didn't. He liked getting closer to Jean, even though it meant asking the right questions at the wrong time. Or maybe the other way around.

“They were talking about my dad. See, it's a small town, no matter what people say. I was there for a long time before I left. Some—most people know me.”

“But they don't _know_ you, do they?”

Jean grinned at him. “Do they know you?”

That made Neil shut up. Nobody really knew him, though there was no particular reason why they didn't. He thought about it for a moment. Now, it felt like Jean was the only one who had made it past the shell of his walking corpse, and the thick layers of safety he had wrapped around himself—just in case. They were walking, they were alone, hands brushing from time to time as they swung one way or another, and Neil felt his throat go tight.

“What don't they know?” Neil dared. It took a moment of silence, that stretched around and made Neil ill-at-ease, but eventually Jean's shoulders relaxed.

“It's my father.”

Neil swallowed. This sentence he had told himself countless times before, trying to explain to people—to Kevin, to anyone—what was really happening. Kevin didn't realize it, of course. He knew something was off, but Neil never brought it up and never cared to talk about it. As for Jean's father, Moreau, Neil had always sensed something was up.

It could have been sad that those two boys had the same kind of problems, but it wasn't: Neil was simply... relieved. Frustrated, like he knew he wasn't going to like what would follow, but relieved still, because it meant someone could, perhaps; get it. Someone _could_ get it.

“They made fun of him.”

“I understand,” he shrugged. “You wanted to defend him.”

“No,” Jean laughed, emptily. “Not really. See, they made fun of me too. I had to choose the lesser evil.”

“What did you choose?”

“I chose me,” Jean smiled softly, peeping in his direction. “I chose me this time. And I think I chose me a long time ago, and that it's why I left.”

“How does it feel?” Neil asked, not realizing how sad his question sounded.

“See for yourself.” It was half a plea, or maybe a dare; Neil didn't know. Either way, he froze in place just thinking about it. Jean gestured at the house behind him and he figured they were home already. Man, he didn't want to go home. He didn't want to leave this sidewalk, to leave Jean.

He decided to buy himself some time by smoothly ignoring what he had just said. “What were they saying, these guys?”

“They said...” he sighed. “They said I'll never amount to anything, or at least no more than my father. I don't care what my father does for a living, you know? That he picks up the trash or cleans up toilets in the bathroom of a gloomy McDonald's. What matters to me is my future. At least I think.”

Neil waited, patient—paralyzed. Jean got closer, hands in his pockets. Soon enough they were an inch away from each other, pretending it didn't happen. Pretending they didn't care.

“I like to belive I'm not like my father,” Jean almost whispered.

His eyes flickered down to Neil's mouth, and he let his head fall to the side as he watched.

“What about you?”

“I...” Neil tried. He couldn't make it out.

Jean waited, breathless.

“I,” Neil tried again. And when he opened his mouth, so close to him, it struck.

Suddenly, with no fore warning: he turned and bent and threw up on the sidewalk, right then and there. Jean took a step back by surprise, then rushed to his back, brushing his hair in slow motions. “Are you okay?”

“I'm—fine,” he decided, though his stomach made him heave once more. He stayed in that position for a long minute, trying to let go of what was left, but there seemed to be nothing more to retch.

Eventually he straightened and wiped the corner of his mouth with his left sleeve. He felt disgusting. More than this: he felt embarrassed. He remembered what could have happened if only he hadn't drunk so much and turned around, disappearing out of Jean's touch and reach.

“I'll see you soon.”

“Neil?” he tried to belate him. Neil turned around. “...Nothing. Take care,” he simply said, and turned around. Once again it was Neil who watched him disappear and cross the road to another dimension, and he felt sick to his stomach. He didn't think that was the alcohol.

  
  


  
  


On the weekend, Neil found a job at a local vintage store called Vint Stop. He started working immediately, which, chronologically, was the same day he received the call from the manager—Wymack.

Jean pushed the door exactly four hours into his shift, and the face he made when he spotted Neil behind the counter proved he hadn't expected to find him here.

“Following me? Stalker.”

“You wish,” Jean snarled, but that made Neil actually shut up.

Maybe he wished so. Maybe he did. So what?

“Nah. I come here every few days,” Jean finally said. “I like old stuff.”

“Can I help you then?”

Jean grinned. “I fear you can't,” and as he said so, grabbed something off a shelf. It was a vintage, secondhand 80's horror movie. “I couldn't buy it last time. So here am I.”

“You know the shop by heart don't you?”

It's that moment Wymack chose to leave the backroom. “If he'd asked me for a spot I would've given him yours,” he said without a smile. The tone was conversational and Neil tried not to get offended. “This guy right there is around almost as much as I am, and I'm the goddamn manager.”

Jean nodded a greeting and put the DVD on the counter.

“How's it going, old man?”

“Better than you,” Wymack stated, chin vaguely pointing at his tired face. Then he disappeared in the backroom again, arms full of old video games, and Neil turned to Jean.

“Can I cash it then?”

“You're so eager to see me leave,” he joked as Neil turned pink. “Anyways. I was planning on stopping by your house or texting you, now that I have your number. But seeing you're here, let's do it now.”

“Do what?” Neil asked, throat tight with anticipation. What if he was about to kiss him? Oh he wasn't ready. It couldn't be.

Neil tensed, fight or flight reflexes all ready to act. He was seconds away from running away, and yet, he stayed there behind that counter, watching Jean with wide blue eyes.

“There's something I want to show you. I thought I could pick you up tomorrow. Or, anytime, really. Just tell me when you're free.”

“I'm free,” Neil exclaimed. “I am. I'm free.”

“Alright,” Jean grinned, obviously pleased by how nervous he was making Neil in the daylight. Things seemed different then. “I'll pick you up tomorrow.”

“Don't knock. My father...” he trailed off while going through Jean's order.

Jean nodded. “Promise I won't. And you do your job at escaping that house of yours.”

The smile he gave Jean sealed the pact, and then he was alone again.

 


End file.
